ONE-LEGGED TURKEY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-08-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     How was your Thanksgiving? People ask that all the time, and what they want to know is, how bad did you fight with your relatives? I had a nice holiday, although due to circumstances beyond our control I was forced into the kitchen on one foot, where my basting was lambasted, my stuffing didn't have the right stuff, my mashed potatoes were bashed and even the turkey complained about where I took its temperature. Finally I was told to just prepare the cranberry sauce and stay out of the way. I served it in the perfect shape of a tin can, you're welcome.

     We had a few of my sisters over for the big dinner, and we get along great for 90% of the day. There's never any talk of serving yams, green bean casserole or giblets, so we all agree on that. If the conversation ends up in the swamp of politics, we all agree on who brought it there. But eventually the board games come out, and that's when the gloves come off. Some people erroneously think that games are all about having fun, so eventually the competition filters down to me and my sister Kath, because we understand best that games are just a metaphor for survival in today's world.

     My strategy is to throw everything into the pot and see what simmers. That's also how I got kicked out of the kitchen earlier in the day. Kath's approach is to know all the rules, and tell me only the ones she thinks I need to know. This rivalry goes all the way back to our childhood, when we spent the hours that we should have been studying hidden in attic playing "Life" and "Careers." I had the vague suspicion that not doing my homework might affect my actual life and career, but I thought I might roll the dice and find out. I consider myself a pretty good sport because I don't care if I lose, as long as the other players don't win. I choose to remember that I used to win most of those games, and I choose to forget that Kath maintained a straight-A average while I graduated high school with a 1.7 grade-point average.

     We capped the holiday weekend off with a trip into Manhattan to see "A Prairie Home Companion," which is one of my favorite things to do this time of year. If you are a writer or a musician or both, and you can't find something to love in that show, there's something wrong with you. At my age there's usually something wrong with me anyway, so loving things rarely makes it worse. 

     Garrison Keillor was back onstage after a forced sabbatical during which he was dropped by his sponsoring radio network for "misconduct." I don't know much about a lot of things, but I do know that what goes on between two people is something NOBODY knows much about, which makes it hard to come to black-and-white conclusions. I also know is that "misconduct" sounds like something a maestro should be fired for.

     Anyway, the show hearkens back to the nostalgic days of radio comedy, complete with an old-fashioned sound-effects man. I would give anything to be in charge of sound-effects, but my wife thinks that I would be better suited to noise-effects. Either way I would welcome any excuse to do a little more hearkening.

     Afterwards at the restaurant I ordered veal saltimbocca, a tasty dish which means in Italian, "jumps into your mouth." It was true; I opened my mouth and it jumped right in, but I wish it would have waited until I cut it into a smaller piece. My mouth is open quite a lot, so it wasn't a particularly unusual occurrence.

     Now that I'm working with only one usable leg, I've benefited from the "Stevie Wonder Effect." There used to be a theory that because Stevie Wonder does not have the use of his eyes, all his other senses were heightened, and that's how he was able to excel in music. The theory doesn't account for the fact that Stevie Wonder has more talent in his pinky finger than most of us have in our whole body. Thank god he still has the use of his pinky finger. Anyway, it seems that since I can't use my right foot, all the other parts of my body are proving to be more useful and talented than they ever were before. For instance, I went up and down the stairs at the restaurant on my butt. Then I proceeded to drive home through midtown Manhattan using only my left foot, which as far as I know is neither illegal nor smart. I can't wait to see what else my left foot can do, not to mention my butt, and now I'm sorry that I did mention it.

A CONNECTICUT YANKEE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-01-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     A few weeks ago we took advantage of the beautiful weather to spend a nice little weekend in Hartford. We bicycled around around West Hartford Reservoir, a lovely spot to take in some fall foliage. We were eventually asked to leave by the police because we didn't have helmets. I told the cop that I was shocked that you can ride a motorcycle on the street without a helmet in Connecticut but not a bicycle in the park. He said true, but if someone gets in an accident without a helmet, heads will roll.

     We traveled down the street to take a tour of the Mark Twain House and Museum. It's the place where Samuel Clemens became Mark Twain and wrote his most iconic works. Clemens was a struggling writer at the time, and the 25-room mansion was built not with his money, but his wife's inheritance from her coal baron father. I used to tell my Mom, hey, it's just as easy to fall in love with a rich girl as a poor one, and she said, yes, but good luck getting one to fall in love with you.

     The architecture itself is appealing, as from the outside the home calls to mind a riverboat. I'm always fascinated by large dwellings with so many rooms that they ran out of things to use them for. Our tour commenced in the parlor. The house was built before the time of beauty parlors, so even ugly people were welcome there. We visited the drawing room and the library. All the while our guide was telling us the story of Sam and Olivia Clemens, their successes and heartaches, the ill health of their daughters and financial tribulations. 

     We continued to the sitting room, and I'd love to have one of those, in fact I can't stand not having one. The one room Twain couldn't seem to find in a house full of exuberant young girls was a place to do his writing. He finally settled on the upstairs billiards room, where no one but staff was allowed. He wrote by day and entertained his friends over a cigar and a whiskey by night.

     I always like to ask the tour guide a question here and there. In case she thinks I haven't been paying attention, this proves it beyond any doubt. "Do you think that today Mark Twain would still say that the reports of his death were greatly exaggerated?" 

     I remember visiting the Mark Twain House when I was little with my Grandmother. All you grandparents out there, remember, you're never going to totally understand your grand-kids' world. They may not know how to let you into it. But you can let them into yours, just as my Grandmother did. By instilling in me a lifelong love of birds, gardening, cooking and so many other things, her legacy will live on every time I burn a casserole.

     I don't think a grandparent can buy children's affection with a few toys and some candy. It will take several toys and a lot of candy. Another, more time-consuming but effective way, is to take them out of their house before their parents think of chores for them to do, and spend a little time with them. And adults can learn a lot from children, too; Mark Twain said it best: "The most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they know and then stop.”

     I'd be fine with having grandchildren, but I found out you have to have children first and see how that goes. I'd be a good grandfather, and if my grand-kids had children I would a great grandfather. My brother-in-law Paul reads a story to his grand-kids a few times a week by zoom, which I think is a great idea. I can picture me doing the same thing: "Okay, Rickster III, I'm going to read you one of my favorite nursery rhymes. Ready? Here it is: 'Cursory.' You may not understand that until you grow up to be JUST LIKE ME, but it's a real time-saver."

     The museum offers a unique experience: you can book a writing session in Mark Twain's library, along with seven other participants. If it goes really well and you finish something, I guess you can just add it to the shelf. Anyone caught drawing will politely be removed to the drawing room. I think I'd be too self-conscious to write anything, because I'd spend the whole three hours comparing myself to Twain. In my own opinion, I'm taller, better at tennis, and I think a slightly better writer. Not everyone would agree that I'm a better writer than Shania Twain, but most would not argue that I am taller.
 

ATHLETE'S FOOT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-24-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     My orthopedist's office is my home-awayfrom-home these days. I've been putting some of his kids through college by re-injuring my foot as many times as he has kids. Once I confirmed that he isn't planning to have any more children, he performed a percutaneous skeletal fixation of a fracture in my fifth metatarsal. And each word of that sentence over three syllables cost me a thousand dollars towards my deductible. The medical community has a special committee that makes up words that immediately vaporize if used outside of a clinical context. Too bad, because if I told you that your hair was looking quite percutaneous today, we could both go home happy, and you'd have your truth, and I'd have mine.

     He told me that the injury is not uncommon among athletes. I said, "Then YOU explain how it got into MY foot." There are some things that medical school cannot prepare you for. The hardest part is answering people who ask how it happened. I guess it was from playing tennis, but it's hard to believe I was playing vigorously enough to break my foot. Sometimes things just happen to me for their own reasons. I'm the type of person that could write a "poison pen" letter, and somehow kill myself with the pen by accident. So I made up a more plausible scenario of how I broke my foot: "I was about to go onstage and someone said 'Break a leg.' Obviously I didn't think they were talking about my own, so I broke my foot kicking the other members of my band in the leg."

     So I got to the hospital for my surgery, and was met at the front desk by a very pleasant lady whom I can only assume was the maître d'. I tipped her first thing, insuring myself a good seat. Every doctor or nurse I came into contact with tried to stump me with the same question: what is my name and birthday? They didn't ask me my address, so I knew I wasn't going to get a birthday card. I answered a different way each time, and that's how they knew it was really me. Then a nurse asked me which foot we were operating on, and I told her the right foot, but I would have said that no matter which foot was broken. Their motto is, if it ain't broken, don't fix it, unless it's covered by insurance.

     There's a lot I can still do even on only one foot: I can still grouse, I can still carp, I can still bemoan, I can still objurgate, I can still grumble, I can still grizzle. That's six things right there. Running a Marathon? Not anytime soon, which coincidentally is also my best time.

     I was informed that the procedure was successful. I was a little groggy as the anesthesia wore off in the recovery room, but the nurses said I could go home as soon as I started making sense. I pictured myself as a modern-day "Jeff" Jeffries, the broken-footed hero in "Rear Window." I'm about to expose Thorwald for killing his wife, but he figures out where I live and now it's just me and him, so I point my camera to blind him with my flash, just like in the movie. "Hold on, my flash is set on a ten-second delay. I have to check the instruction book, but actually the instructions are in a .pdf file on the manufacturer's website. Give me a moment Thorwald, you impatient scoundrel. Found it- nope, it's in Arabic. I'm going to have to poll the 'Online Community.' Stop right there, Thorwald, or these pictures go right on Facebook, and you are not going to love the unflattering lighting."

     Then I imagined myself as a modern-day "Fugitive," hunted by the innocent but relentless Dr. Richard Kimble, but instead of one arm I have only one foot. "Have you seen a one-footed man here?" Kimble asks a guy stacking carts at the supermarket. He says, "Why, yes, he was shopping here at around noon." "NOON! That means he has a two-hour head start!" "Well actually, he's right over there, still hopping towards the parking lot exit." 

     Or I could be a modern-day "Ironside," a chief of detectives fighting crime with my broken foot from a wheelchair. "Chief, this investigation has stalled, what should we do??" "We go where the clues take us, that's what we do." "Sir, all the evidence seems to point to the house at the top of that hill, and we'll be right behind you." "Actually, I think I saw some clues heading DOWN that hill over there, so I'll just take the low road. Later!" "But Chief! CHIEF!" 

     The nurses got tired of waiting for me to make sense and released me on my own recognizance, since they couldn't find anyone else who would let me onto their recognizance.

SPECIAL TEAMS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-17-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     We attended our local high school's football game last Friday, a semifinal post-season meeting that could pave the way to a date at the State Championships. It was decidedly a one-sided affair as the home team dominated on both defense and offense. It was fun to sit in the stands and remember what it was like during those four years that formed so many friendships and forged so much foundation of character. You couldn't read any of that on those teenage faces, consumed by the gravitational pull of an iPhone, making absolutely sure not to hear Mom calling from up in the 12th row.

     I was surprised they even let me back onto high school grounds at all after what happened the first time. Growing up I was never known for my academic prowess, and I had to marshal all of my brain power just to escape from Horace Greeley with a 1.7 grade point average. My SATs didn't go much better. I heard that you got a hundred points just for signing your name, so I signed mine eight times.

     I did not go out for athletics when I was in high school, I was too busy trying to establish my budding career in rock & roll, which is still waiting to flower. Just the word "athletics" implied that I had to be athletic more than once, which seemed unlikely. "All right Melén," the coach would have said at tryouts, "why don't you show us what you can do." And I proceed to put both thumbs behind my knuckles, which not many people can do. Then I perform Chopin's "Minute Waltz" by slapping my cheeks in perfect tune and I bring it in in 58 seconds. I close with a very credible imitation of a family of pigs, papa, mama and baby. Tada! "That was a disturbing display, Melén, but what's any of that got to do with football?" "Nothing, Coach, but I'd like to see YOU try it." I was surprised to find that the Coach was also double-jointed and musically inclined.

     I wasn't strong or fast enough to be a fullback, a halfback or a quarterback. A sixteenth of a back would probably be my top offer, and let somebody else make up the difference. If none of those, what slot would I fill? I'm quite sure that my position would be offensive, much as most of my positions are now. Or maybe I would have tried out for nose tackle. It seems to me that if I could just get somebody's nose onto the ground, the rest of him should follow, if I'm doing it right. Place-kicker might have been the best fit for me, as long as I could choose the place.

     No matter if was sports, rock & roll or the debate team, it was all about attracting the attention of others. I've noticed that a fair amount of individuality is often revealed through teenage hair. I saw a lot of interesting dyes and cuts among the guys on the team. It's possible that when they get to be my age they'll look back on their personal style choices and think, wow, I was way ahead of my time. My time still hasn't caught up to me, considering I wear my hair pretty much the same way as I did then, and I'm pretty lucky to still have it around for people to complain about.

     If high school kids really were as smart as they think they are, they would shave just the top of their head, thin it out around the sides and color the rest gray. That way, 50 years from now they can post some throwback pictures on Facebook and let their stunned friends comment, "WOW! You're amazing! You look EXACTLY the same as you did then!"

     The cheerleaders stayed mostly over in the student section, but at halftime they wandered over to our area, and wherever they cheerled, we cheerfollowed. I expected that cheerleaders would be naturally cheerful, but they had a huge jug of Dunkin' Donuts coffee just in case the school spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.

     Looking at those young faces at the game, dashing by, in a determined rush to find somewhere more significant, grinding through these years as if they were just like any other, made me want to call out and tell them to slow down and capture these times into a snow globe, one that you can look at from the outside, turn upside down and let it settle slowly from chaos into order, only to be shaken again countless times.... But that's something that can't be taught; it can only be learned....

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-10-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     So, what have you got planned for next Tuesday? Most people will be going to the polls, and casting their vote. I'll be having my foot operated on, voting for a cast. After all, it is elective surgery.... As painful as it will be for me, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. Following returns all night long, the potential for a depressing result, obvious losers who refuse to concede, and on top of that I'm never going to fit into your shoes with this cast on.

     At least it will bring a welcome end to those political ads, which I can't stomach for either party. I would love to see political ads banned from television, forcing people to actually read about the candidates and figure out a coherent reason for supporting one over the other. Then I remembered that I work for television, and these ads help pay my exorbitant salary, and now they give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. 

     I have consciously avoided discussing politics here because if I do, afterwards I feel like earthworms have been crawling all over my body, and believe me the sensation is no less unpleasant for the earthworms. These days everything is black or white, all or nothing, good or bad. If you spin something that's black and white it turns gray, and the gray areas are much more interesting. Subtlety and nuance lives there, as does art and music. If politics could be a little more like art and music, it wouldn't sound so horrible all the time.

     Also, and I don't want to sound any more ignorant than usual, but there are some offices that I have no idea what they do, and I mean this with no disrespect. I'm sure that comptrollers are out there every day fighting the good fight, but I can't remember the last time someone said, "This situation is out of comptroll! Only a competent comptroller can keep this thing from going haywire!"

     I also don't know what an adjutant does, but I suspect that if my comptroller had an one, he or she would send them along to do all the dirty work, and then swoop in to take all the credit afterwards. A bursar's duties are a bit of a mystery to me, other than doing the billeting. And here's a bulletin: I don't know what billeting is either. I do know that a bursar sounds like it could be harmful to your skin. "Didn't you used to have a bursar in the office next door?" "Yes, and we had to call a doctor in to have it removed. I was going to lance it myself with a barbecue skewer, but my secretary talked me out of it."

     Just listening to most politicians talk is like watching an embarrassing Oscar speech. Judging by the brainpower of some members of the Senate, it seems easier to get a seat there than on the Number 7 train during rush hour. It's like the old joke that to escape, I don't have to run faster than the lion, I only have to run faster than YOU. Politicians don't have to be smarter than the average high school graduate, they just have to be louder and more annoying than the one running against them. 

     Why not make the race a REAL race, like a pentathlon? Five events to find out which candidate is the worthiest. The first event is the "Skeleton," where we count the number of scandals each contestant has in their closet, and see whose is the seamiest. Next is the "International Spin," where we present each candidate with a tragic overseas natural disaster, and see which one can make it most about THEM. In the "Political Football" event, we take an issue that no one wants to talk about, like lowering their own salaries, and whichever one can keep from making a face like they just ate tainted seafood wins. Next is "Discuss Throw," where, when presented with a specific topic to discuss, he or she thinks about it thoughtfully, then proceeds to answer a question that was never asked. Lastly, "Artistic Pandering" measures a candidate's ability to make a specific and brainless statement designed to appeal to the least intelligent segment of the population, and then tries to get Mexico pay for it.

     So, Melén, I guess you think you could do any better? Hell no, I would be disqualified after the first hacker gets hold of my browser history. Oh, I don't have any more to answer to than any other normal guy, but anyone looking at the weird searches I do to research this column would have to conclude that I should be institutionalized sooner rather than later.